


Blending In

by DinoDina



Category: Torchwood
Genre: 1927, Cuddling, Home, M/M, Taken By The Rift, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 19:08:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14837484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinoDina/pseuds/DinoDina
Summary: Flung by the Rift into the past, all Jack and Ianto can do is blend in. But when the time comes to return to the 21st century, Ianto isn't sure what to do.





	Blending In

The countryside passing the window slowly stopped moving as the car did. Ianto turned away from the window to look at Jack, whose gaze was thoughtfully directed onto the clear sky and dark trees just beyond the road. He focused his attention on Ianto with a lascivious grin, his hand moving from the steering wheel to rest on Ianto's shoulders.

"They used to do this all the time, you know," he said, the softness in his voice echoed on his face.

"Used to?" Ianto asked with a smirk and raise of his eyebrows—as far as he knew, they hadn't ever stopped driving together—, but nevertheless allowed himself to be tugged closer to Jack in the wide front seat.

"Used to," Jack repeated. "And now, too… it all depends on when you are."

Ianto nodded. He felt the Vortex Manipulator on Jack's wrist press against his shoulder. "So what is it they do?" he asked, breaking the quiet and drawing Jack—who was looking at him with something like tenderness—back to the present.

"They revel in the freedom." Jack patted the wheel in front of him with his free hand. "You've seen them: it's their first taste of freedom, and this—" he patted the wheel again "—gives it to them. This generation is ready to fly."

Ianto grinned at the bright look in Jack's eyes; he sounded like an eager historian and a proud grandfather. He was both, probably, if now disguised as an ordinary man.

"They drive everywhere now. It's the first time  _ever_  that humans can move so freely: take the car, to and fro, you can be halfway across the country in a day. But…" he leaned close to Ianto, his lips just touching Ianto's ear, and lowered his voice. "It's not the country sights they're hoping to see."

"No?"

"The generation's a scandal!" Jack laughed. "You any good at maths, Ianto?"

"I'd like to think I am."

"Tell me, then: what happens when you stick a pair of crazy young kids in a moving vehicle with no adult supervision for the first time?"

"Can't imagine," Ianto said, dryly but not without enthusiasm; Jack's free hand had just now begun to take advantage of the lack of supervision, and Ianto was in no way complaining.

"How about two crazy kids in a  _parked_  car?"

On a dark road in the middle of the Welsh countryside, in a parked car, Ianto turned his head and met Jack in a passionate kiss. After all, they had to blend in with the locals.

They'd been blending in with the locals since 1927, from the moment they'd appeared in the middle of a field, yet just a moment before then having been chasing a Weevil through Cardiff's docks.

Torchwood had gotten there quickly, but not before they'd hidden—because it wasn't  _their_  Torchwood. Ianto recognized them from pictures; Jack knew them personally from 1927.

The easiest place to hide was in plain sight. And so they did.

A quick raid of Jack's backup bank account, a new flat, and identification papers. Cardiff, in all its beauty and inherent familiarity, had been foreign. But Ianto had quickly learned one thing: it was better to live in the present than dwell in the past—in his case, that had been to live in the past and forget the future.

For their first month, he'd missed the Weevils.

A funny thing, but he hadn't been able to help it.

Now, it was their last opportunity to blend in with the locals. Hugging Jack, Ianto almost laughed into his shoulder. To think that he would miss it: the old car, strange clothing, and unfamiliar food. To think that now, after over a year of dreaming of the Weevils he'd left in the 21st century, he dreaded seeing one.

He hadn't adjusted, not really. He'd done what he'd had to: worn the clothes, eaten the food… everything Jack did—but worse, because he wasn't a time-traveller, and living in 1927 didn't change that.

He longed for the comforts of the 21st century, but had more so longed for the comforts of home: his books and familiar clothes, the James Bond DVDs he and Jack would watch on quiet days. He longed for his life, which had so suddenly been stripped away from him—even for Torchwood, with its danger and uncertainty.

But now… now, Ianto desperately wanted to return to the flat they'd bought and sparsely furnished. He wanted to smile at the middle-aged landlady, Mrs. Williams, whose humble hospitality reminded him of Gwen, had she been quieter; he wanted to go out and buy milk from the shop on the corner of the road, which hadn't been there in the future; he wanted to give leftovers to the tabby cat on their balcony, that came and went, but always let Ianto rub it between the ears.

He wanted to grab Jack by the lapels of his greatcoat—he'd put it back on right before the drive—and kiss him, and then to shove him into the passenger's seat and drive back to Cardiff.

"It was the car that mobilized the twenties." Jack drew back with a small smile and stopped, only his hand playing with Ianto's short hair, just touching the collar of his shirt. "Pride and joy of every man."

"His own car?"

"Yeah. And a friend to take driving in it."

"A  _friend_?" Ianto raised an eyebrow.

"A  _friend_ ," Jack echoed. He leaned in and whispered enticingly, "a girlfriend… a boyfriend."

"Both?" Ianto asked playfully. He didn't want to dwell on it, not now, not when they were leaving.

Jack nodded. "Sometimes."

Jack probably sensed Ianto's discomfort when he didn't answer, because the next time he spoke, it wasn't about boyfriends: "I remember there was a Rift spike right around here. Nothing came through and the computers weren't advanced enough to show something missing, but I remember it. I just got back from France that day, and they had me check it out."

"Did you find anything?"

"Nothing. Not even the car. I remember—that tree right there—" he pointed. "And nothing else, it was all completely normal."

"What are you saying?"

"I like the car." Jack smiled ruefully. "I'll miss it. And the flat— _our_  flat. It was a good flat."

"Yeah."

Ianto felt himself ineloquent, because while he fully agreed with Jack, and the feeling of regret was growing stronger, he felt out of place. He had responsibilities, and even daring to hope—daring to  _think_ —was wrong. It was wrong in the way it was wrong to drink milk from the carton—not that they had milk cartons in 1927—and wrong in the way it was wrong to lick the frosting off cupcakes—not that they had cupcakes in 1927.

He would miss their flat, not that it was anything personal. They hadn't made it personal, just for the reason that they'd have to leave it. They'd known they'd leave right from the beginning, and so had only temporarily blended in.

But time passed.

And wishes changed.

"I'll miss it," Ianto said, echoing Jack's words. He thought of his flat, back in Cardiff; it had been home, and yet he didn't feel the yearning to return to it, not like he'd felt for the past year.

The Vortex Manipulator dug into his back where Jack's arm was pressed against him. He was used to the feeling; they were together so often, and Jack rarely took it off. Now, though, it felt different. It wasn't different, not really. But it worked—and that was a difference.

That was what happened when his lover was a time-traveller, Ianto supposed: Jack's future version could easily appear with a temporary fix for the wriststrap, leaving them with a time and location for the Rift opening just enough to give the Manipulator the energy to bring them home.

"We should get out of the car, objects don't travel so well without a barrier," Jack said.

"A barrier?"

"Something to protect them from the Time Vortex. Like a time machine—which is the transportation device, too—or a vortex-adapted transportation unit. That's why the Rift does such a number on individual objects, why we barely ever recover anything whole: they're not equipped for the travel, so get damaged easily."

"Huh." Ianto thought back to the objects they'd recovered. "I've never noticed."

"You have," Jack said. "But it never seemed important."

Ianto laughed. Jack was right; he filed things away for future reference, but rarely recalled them until necessary. "So the car's just going to be a casualty?"

"Of the Rift?"

Ianto nodded.

"If we leave, then yes."

"And…" Ianto looked down, uncertain. "And if we don't leave?"

"Then we take the car with us."

There was a question in Jack's statement, and Ianto heard it loud and clear.

And though he desperately wanted to think about it, to ask for more time lest he make a mistake… he already knew the answer—the  _right_  answer. Because while he missed the Weevils, he missed their flat more; he missed Myfanwy more than the flat. He missed the Hub, but missed their routine more; he missed Gwen more than their established life here. He missed his sister. And though he ached for the might-have-been, his life—his  _real_  life—already existed.

He sighed. He couldn't find the words. And so he just shook his head sadly, and Jack nodded at him, understanding.

"Let's go, then."

Ianto spared a last look at the car, a last touch to the upholstery—a last kiss in the car with Jack, as they had done for so long in secret—and opened the door.

The cool evening air wasn't sudden because the car had had no heating, but the light breeze made him shiver. At least Jack had his coat; Ianto, having disappeared in mid-summer, had only been wearing a suit.

"Any second now," Jack said, looking at his wrist.

 _The Rift is going to open_ , Ianto thought.  _For how long?_

He reached over and took Jack's hand. They'd discussed it long ago—time travel, back when Ianto had first asked about it, and Jack had said that Vortex Manipulators were basic, that contact was required for travel, that they broke easily. Then, the concept of time travel has seemed so distant, so unachievable.

Now, he was waiting to go home.

Rift-travel wasn't Ianto's preferred method. It was his  _least_  preferred method, in fact, until he travelled by Vortex Manipulator. Lying on the ground in the middle of the night in the Welsh countryside, desperately trying not to be sick, and not able to tell up from down, Ianto decided to limit himself to cars.

"Just try to breathe," Jack said gently.

Ianto just moaned. At the moment, the only thing he could concretely feel was Jack: his hands on Ianto's back, supporting him, guiding him into a sitting position.

"When are we?" he managed a few moments later.

"Home."

Ianto wanted to say something clever. Something along the lines of: 'I don't remember 'home' being in the middle of nowhere.' But he didn't, because it  _was_  home: Cardiff wasn't far away— _21st century Cardiff_  wasn't far away.

He smiled against the weakening nausea, and pushed himself up into a sitting position. "Any chance of a ride back into the city?"

"I'm afraid not, the car burned up in the Rift." Jack looked sad at that. Ianto was sad, too: it had been a good car.

He frowned. "Well… we're not  _walking_  back?"

"We'll be picked up. Rift alert, remember?"

Ianto remembered. The sleepless nights, the interrupted dates, the impending doom of the end of the world. But he couldn't help but feel relieved. Rift alerts he knew how to deal with; a domestic life with Jack… not so much.

"Let's go wait over there." Jack pointed. "The grass looks soft."

"How can you even tell what it looks like? It's pitch black."

"I've got a few thousand years of evolution on you," Jack reminded him. "Does wonders for eyesight."

"Alright, then."

Jack had been right, and the grass was not only soft, but comfortable. Not comparable to furniture, of course, but Ianto found an easy position and settled in for the wait in silence. But Jack, apparently, didn't want the silence, and started talking as soon as he joined Ianto on the ground.

"Welcome home."

"Thanks." Ianto grinned. "You, too."

"It's good to be back," Jack said, then shivered slightly at a breeze. "Even if we are in the middle of nowhere. Are you cold?"

Ianto shrugged. "A little."

"The coat's big enough for two," Jack said, then quickly took it off and arranged it to cover both of them; Ianto was sure that some laws of matter had been broken, but he wasn't going to complain now that he had warmth and closeness.

"Thanks."

"Anything to cuddle with a gorgeous Welshman." Jack leered, then the grin turned to an awkward grimace. "'Cuddle'. I've never been that domestic before."

Ianto tried to smile, too, but his attempt was half-hearted at best. They'd had a year full of domesticity in 1927, and despite Jack's grimace, it hadn't been all that bad.

But Jack shook his head before Ianto could voice anything. "I have nothing against being domestic."

"Really?" Ianto raised his eyebrow; banter was a familiar territory.

"Really." Jack sounded serious. "And I'm hoping you don't either."

"I don't."

"Good."

"Good," Ianto echoed. He looked to Jack to keep talking, but nothing happened. He took a deep breath, hoping he wasn't wrong. "Move in with me? Like in '27—it was a nice flat. Nice life… can't completely recreate it, what with the pet pterodactyl, but… it might be nice?"

Jack's face lit up with a grin. "I'd love that. As soon as they pick us up, I'll do it. I'll move in with you."

It would happen that quickly, Ianto knew: there were forms to fill out, debriefings to deliver, not to mention the fact that they'd likely arrived several months after they'd been taken—there was no guarantee on accuracy with Vortex Manipulators—so his flat was probably packed up. Jack was the boss, of course, so the process might not be so convoluted, but it would nevertheless be long. It was a nice sentiment, though. And it didn't feel so hard now that he knew nothing would change between them.

Ianto settled in for the wait: they were going home.


End file.
